Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels) (24 page)

“And why would they choose you?” Sir Vivian asked coldly.

“Because we’re very close,” said Fisher.

“You have some proof of your office here, of course,” said Sir Vivian in a voice that suggested he very much doubted it.

“Of course,” said Fisher. She handed over the letter of introduction Hawk had prepared earlier. “It’s in Rupert’s own hand, signed by both Rupert and Julia, and bears Rupert’s seal at the bottom. You do recognize the Royal seal of the Forest Kings, don’t you?”

Sir Vivian scowled, but nodded reluctantly. There had only ever been three Royal seals, one each for John, Harald, and Rupert. Handed down through generations of the Forest line, they were magical constructs and could not be duplicated. The letter might have been forged, the seal, never. He handed the letter back to Hawk, and then glowered at Hawk and Fisher equally.

“What precisely was so important that the Prince and Princess could turn their backs on the Forest Land?”

“That’s their business,” said Hawk politely.

“I have a right to know!”

“No, you don’t,” said Fisher. “If they’d wanted you to know, they’d have put it in the letter. All you need to know is they’re not coming, but we are here to do everything they would.”

“Wonderful,” said Sir Vivian, almost viciously. “This will change everything. The King’s death left the Court and the country divided into factions almost beyond counting. Prince Rupert and Princess Julia are legends. Real heroes. All sides had agreed to an uneasy peace, awaiting their return. The Prince and Princess were the only people everyone would have trusted, or at least listened to. Once the news gets out that all we’ve got is you, the peace will collapse in a second. The last thing the Court or this country needs is two outsiders upsetting the political process and walking all over our customs and beliefs.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hawk. “We know how to be diplomatic.”

“Sure,” said Fisher. “We just don’t bother, usually.”

Sir Vivian looked deeply unhappy, and just a little shocked. It had been a long time since anyone had dared talk back to him. As High Commander of the Guard, his position and his legend had always been enough to intimidate anyone not actually of Royal birth. He was about to launch into a ferocious diatribe on correct behavior that would have seared their ears, when his gaze suddenly fell on the axe at Hawk’s side. He studied the wide axe head in silence for a long moment, taking in the runes etched into the steel, and then he looked at Hawk with new eyes, and something very like respect.

“My brother, Gawaine, had an axe like that. Our father, the High Warlock, gave it to him after Tower Rouge. Because he wanted to show how proud he was of his bastard sons. I could have had one, too, but I asked for something else, which I later threw away. Where did you get that axe?”

“From the High Warlock,” said Hawk. “I did him a service once.”

“But how did you get it?”

“Mail order,” said Fisher briskly. “Look, are you going to invite us in, or not? We’ve got a hard job ahead of us, and we’d like to make a start.”

“Very well,” said Sir Vivian. “Against all my better judgment, I’ll take you in and present you to the Court. Though what they’ll make of you is not my problem. Follow me. Stay close and don’t wander. And, Sir Questor, we will have words about this later.”

“Looking forward to it immensely, Sir Vivian,” said Chance, smiling widely and just a little desperately.

“Lies like that will take you straight to hell,” said Chappie.

“Shut up,” said Chance.

They followed Sir Vivian in through the main door, and the (possibly) ceremonial guards fell in around and behind them. The door slammed loudly on the continuing quiet in the courtyard. Fisher moved in close beside Hawk.

“If Gawaine got an axe from the High Warlock, what did Vivian get that he lost?”

“His lordship,” said Hawk.

Sir Vivian gave orders for all further celebrations to be canceled immediately, and led Chance, Hawk, and Fisher to Court by the least traveled route, working on the assumption that the fewer people who knew Rupert and Julia weren’t coming back, the better; at least until Hawk and Fisher had been presented and, he hoped, accepted, at Court. He also sent guards off with orders for the rest of his people to prepare for possible civil unrest and even rioting. Many people had invested a lot of faith in Rupert and Julia’s return, and there was no telling how they might express their disappointment.

Hawk had to keep from looking happily about him. It was the first time he’d been inside his old home for twelve long years, and everywhere familiar sights and objects leaped out at him, bringing back memories; from old family portraits to suits of ancient armor to assorted bric-a-brac that apparently no one had gotten around to throwing out. Even the most worthless junk can acquire a patina of worth and history if people hold on to it long enough. Especially if there’s a story attached to it. Or people think there is, or used to be. The old familiarity of home came flooding back, and it was only with an effort that Hawk remembered how glad he’d always been to get away from the Castle. Prince Rupert had rarely been happy here, and with good reason. Most of the people who persecuted him and made his life miserable were dead and gone now, lost in the Demon War, but their ghosts still haunted his memory. He glanced across at Fisher to see how the Castle was affecting her, but she seemed to be taking it all in her stride, as she did most things.

From Sir Vivian’s reluctant answers, Hawk discovered that the Court was still in session, despite the late hour of the evening, under the Regent, Queen Felicity. The day’s business should have been concluded long ago, but apparently with so many factions, political parties, and causes all demanding to be heard, or at least noticed, it was taking longer and longer to reach an agreement on anything. Raised voices and hot tempers were commonplace, and it was a rare session that ended without some level of bloodshed, despite all Sir Vivian’s guards did to maintain order. Hawk had to get most of the details from Chance, after Sir Vivian decided he wasn’t talking to Hawk anymore. Anyone would think he was upset.

On their way to the Court, they passed through a great hall crammed full of magic-users of every and any persuasions, all of them eagerly demonstrating their powers and abilities to anyone who showed an interest, or would at least stand still long enough. The raised voices, flaring lights, and sudden transformations made for a unique form of bedlam, and Hawk and Fisher stopped to watch, fascinated. Most of the Forest Land’s previous magicians had died during the last great battle of the Demon War, poisoned by the treacherous Astrologer. Afterward, rather than be left helpless in the face of possible magical attacks from neighboring Hillsdown and Redhart, King Harald had put out a call for all magic-users in the Land, of whatever cause or quality, to come to the Forest Castle and serve the Land. And so they all came, eager for a chance to be put on the Royal payroll. Since most of them turned out to be meagerly talented, incompetent, or outright frauds, the search went on, even today. The Forest couldn’t afford a magic gap.

Everyone in the hall now was waiting to be seen, to be granted an audience at Court to show what they could do. Hedge witches, conjurers, summoners, warlocks, necromancers, and enchanters, and one self-proclaimed messiah. Some had been camped out in the hall for days, and small stall-holders were doing a brisk trade in food, wine, and toilet essentials. The noise was appalling, not least because the Court hadn’t actually gotten around to viewing anyone that day. In this, as in so many things, the Court was running well behind schedule.

One magician had apparently duplicated himself several times by accident. He was now standing in a small crowd of himself, arguing loudly over which was the original, or at least the most real. Another magician waved his hands theatrically over an upturned top hat, chanting loudly. The chant was suddenly interrupted when a huge clawed hand shot up out of the hat, grasped the magician by the throat, and then pulled him inside the hat. Those watching studied the rocking top hat for a moment, but there was no sign of the magician reappearing. A few clapped tentatively. One braver soul picked up the hat, turned it over, and shook it, but nothing fell out.

Not far away, a self-proclaimed conjurer of devils and apparitions was loudly offering to teach magic to anyone with the right price. As proof of his abilities he produced several impressive objects apparently out of midair. There was great applause, some cheers, and even a few startled cries. Hawk was not impressed. He’d seen street conjurers in Haven, and knew how most of the tricks were done. Conjurers had to be really impressive in Haven, because if they weren’t, the audience would kill them. Of course, if they got too good, there was always the chance someone or
something
would turn up from the Street of Gods, and do something terribly unpleasant to them for trespassing on godly territory. Miracles belonged in churches. Hawk strode over to the conjurer, spun him around twice, and slapped him hard on the back. Several startled doves shot out of the conjurer’s sleeves, a firework went off, and an unconscious rabbit dropped out the back of his coat. People began closing in on the conjurer, loudly demanding their money back, and Hawk left them to it. Chappie ate the rabbit.

Sir Vivian invited Hawk, in a somewhat strained voice, to continue on to the Court, and Hawk nodded amiably. Illusions snapped on and off around them as they made their way through the mob of magic-users. Falls of multicolored hail contended with the pale wisps of ghostly butterflies. Here and there clumps of the more intellectual practitioners were having animated discussions over the merits and/or drawbacks of Wild, High, and Chaos magics, and threatening to turn each other into things. One had actually conjured up a blackboard so he could prove his point with angrily chalked mathematics. Somebody else was making women’s clothes vanish. Hawk shook his head bemusedly.

“I thought magic was supposed to be going out of the world,” he murmured to Fisher.

She shrugged. “If it is, it’s not going quietly.”

The Academy of the Sisters of the Moon was well-represented, with its own stall, a registration drive, and several graduated witches in their familiar silver gowns, trying hard to look mysterious. According to Chance, the Academy had been turning out witches for some time now, but they had yet to produce anything even approaching a sorceress. But witches had their uses, and their low-level magic made them welcome at hospitals, churches, and in the army. Any witch was potentially capable of becoming a sorceress, but that took time and study and experience, and apparently most witches just didn’t survive that long. The world was a dangerous place, and the unseen world even more so.

Chance suddenly broke away from the group and surged forward through the crowd as he recognized a familiar face among the witches. She turned to meet him, smiling sweetly. She was tall and buxom, in a low-cut russet gown, with a magnificent mane of flame-red hair, and huge green eyes full of a happy personal magic. Her name was Tiffany. Hawk and Fisher knew this because Chance had been talking about her all the way through the Forest to the Castle. It seemed he was much taken with Tiffany, though it wasn’t clear how she felt about him. Still a teenager, she was the youngest witch ever to graduate from the Academy of the Sisters of the Moon, and great things were expected of her. Powerful but naïve, she believed in everything, from crystals to tarot to channeling past lives to the healing powers of certain aromas. She was prone to wandering in the woods, picking flowers to give to the poor, whether the poor wanted them or not, and having long conversations with squirrels and birds and butterflies. Chance told Hawk and Fisher all of this at some length, even when they asked him very firmly not to.

By now Chance and Tiffany were clasping hands and smiling into each other’s eyes. Hawk and Fisher wandered over to get a good look at this most praised person. Sir Vivian tried to protest, but they just ignored him. Start as you mean to go on. Chance and Tiffany were so wrapped up in each other, they didn’t even notice Hawk and Fisher’s approach. They tried coughing loudly, but when that didn’t work, they just stood there and studied the young witch thoughtfully. Up close, there was no denying Tiffany’s beauty, but her gaze and smile were just a little too vague for Hawk’s liking.

“It’s so good to see you again, Tiffany,” said Chance, grinning like an idiot. “You’re looking beautiful, as always.”

“That’s nice,” said Tiffany. “So, Allen dear, what have you been doing with yourself?”

“I’ve traveled through the Rift into the south, in search of Prince Rupert and Princess Julia,” said Chance importantly.

“Oh, have you been gone? I hadn’t noticed.” Tiffany turned her happy smile on Hawk and Fisher, not seeing Chance’s crestfallen look. “Are you friends of Allen’s?”

“We’re Hawk and Fisher,” said Hawk. “We’re here to investigate King Harald’s murder.”

“Oh, good,” said Tiffany. “Welcome to Forest Castle. I could have told Chance he wouldn’t be able to bring back Rupert and Julia. I often channel the Princess, and we have long talks.”

“No, you don’t,” Fisher said firmly. “I know the Princess, and I can tell you right now she’s never bloody heard of you.”

There was no telling where this conversation might have gone, so it was lucky for all concerned that it was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a large and blocky man in an impressive magician’s gown of deepest black. He’d shaped and trimmed his black beard to within an inch of its life, and wore a large golden medallion around his neck. He ignored everyone else to scowl ferociously at Tiffany, who just smiled sweetly back at him. If anything, this seemed to upset the newcomer even more.

“I’ve told you before, witch, I won’t have you spreading your infantile nonsense here! I don’t care if you have graduated from the snobby Sisters’ Academy, all this new-age waffle is a waste of everybody’s time, and threatens to bring us all into disrepute. Crystals! Flower scents! Pyramid power! Nonsense, all of it!”

“Have you had a good bowel movement recently, Mal?” asked Tiffany. “You know missing one always makes you grumpy.”